Part 17 (1/2)

”Goin' to put on a white dress?” asked Mrs. Carder. ”Kind o' cool for that, ain't it?”

”I don't think so. I have very few dresses, and I get tired of wearing the same one.”

Mrs. Carder sighed. ”Rufus will buy you all the dresses you want if you'll only get strong. I can see he's dreadful worried because you look pale.”

”Well, I am going to try to become sunburned to-day. I'm so glad you thought of the meadow, Mrs. Carder. Perhaps you like flowers, too.”

The old woman sighed. ”I used to. I've 'most forgot what they look like.”

”I'll bring you some if there are any.”

Geraldine's eyes held an excited light as she ironed away. After the eleven o'clock dinner she went up to her room to dress. Color came into her cheeks as she saw her reflection in the bit of mirror. What a strange thing she was doing. Supposing Miss Upton's paragon had already become absorbed in his own interests. How absurd she should feel wandering afield in the costume he had ordered, if he never came and she never heard from him again.

”Wear white.”

What could it mean? What possible difference could the color of her gown make in any plan he might have concocted for her a.s.sistance? However, in the dearth of all hope, in her helplessness and poverty, and aching from the heart-wound Rufus Carder had given her, why should she not obey?

The color receded from her face, and again delving into her trunk she brought forth an old, white, embroidered crepe shawl with deep fringe which had belonged to her mother. This she wrapped about her and started downstairs. She feared that Carder would accompany her in her ramble.

She could hear his rough voice speaking to some workmen in front of the house, and she moved noiselessly out to the kitchen.

Mrs. Carder looked up from the bread she was moulding and started, staring over her spectacles at the girl.

”You look like a bride,” she said.

”I'll bring you some flowers,” replied Geraldine, hastening out of the kitchen-door down the incline toward the yellow office.

”h.e.l.lo, there,” called the voice she loathed, and Carder came striding after her. She stood still and faced him. The long lines and deep, clinging fringe of the creamy white shawl draped her in statuesque folds. Carder gasped in admiration.

”You look perfectly beautiful!” he exclaimed.

The young girl reminded herself that she was working to become a trusty.

”What's the idea,” he went on, ”of makin' such a toilet for the benefit of the cows?” At the same time, the wish being father to the thought, the glorious suspicion a.s.sailed him that Geraldine was perhaps not unwilling to show him her beauty in a new light. It stood to reason that she must possess a normal girlish vanity.

She forced a faint smile. ”It's just my mother's old shawl,” she replied.

”Want me to help you find your flowers?” he asked.

”If you wish to,” she answered, ”but it isn't discourteous to like to be alone sometimes, is it, Mr. Carder? You were saying at dinner that I looked tired. I really don't feel very well. I thought I would like to roam about alone a while in the suns.h.i.+ne.”

Her gentle humility brought forth a loud: ”Oh, of course, of course, that's all right. Suit yourself and you'll suit me. Just find some roses for your own cheeks while you're about it, that's all I ask.”

”I'll try,” she answered, and walked on. Carder accompanied her as far as his office, where he paused.

”Good-bye, bless your little sweet heart,” he said, low and ardently, in the tone that always seemed to make the girl's very soul turn over.

”Good-bye,” she answered, without meeting the hunger of his oblique gaze; and crossing the driveway she forced herself to move slowly down the gra.s.sy incline that led to the meadow where a number of cows were grazing.

Carder watched longingly her graceful, white figure crowned with gold.